


And The World Came Crashing Down

by One_annoying_bird



Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Buried Alive, Dick Grayson Whump, Everyone Needs A Hug, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:56:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25675462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/One_annoying_bird/pseuds/One_annoying_bird
Summary: When Dick and three of his siblings find themselves within the wreckage of a collapsed building, Dick makes the executive decision for himself to be rescued last.Even if his injuries really demand for him to be first.Not that he'll let anyone know that last bit.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Everyone
Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1845703
Comments: 35
Kudos: 717
Collections: All My Bookmarks, Dick & Ensemble, everybody loves dick





	And The World Came Crashing Down

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Secret Injury" square in my Batman Bingo 2020 card!
> 
> You guys, I'm just. Blown away by the love on the first fic of this series. The comments were all so kind and I got more requests for future fics than what I was expecting. I'm excited to share this addition with you. I wrote it and finished it earlier this week and then decided this morning I didn't like it and rewrote the entire thing. 
> 
> I like this version better. 
> 
> **Warnings** : blood, description of graphic injury, near death situations
> 
> Disclaimer again: I am in no way shape or form anything resembling a doctor or an expert in any kind of injury really. Any injuries sustained by characters in this fic is for the pure purpose of angst, and if things are medially inaccurate then I apologize before hand.
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy!

When Dick comes to, it feels like the whole world is tilting on its axis. His mind feels muddled, like someone stuffed cotton between his skull and brain, and when he works up the strength to blink open his eyes slowly a wave of nausea crashes into him—causing the world to break from it’s tilt and free fall in a stomach churning spin.

He barely even has time to acknowledge the darkness or how something is on top of him, pinning him on his back, when a horrible cough uses his collarbone as a monkeybar to violently swing right out of his throat. 

He writhes, or tries to, but there’s something tugging on his lower side and the pressure above him is unrelenting. The cough attacks his esophagus with no mercy for who knows how long, but when it finally passes Dick is left breathless, gasping and groaning as multiple aches slowly, one by one, make themselves known to him.

The first thing he notices is the pain in his left hand, and when he shakily manages to lift his right one to the mask on his face to turn on night vision, he gets a disturbing look at a definitely broken ring finger. He can see it already swelling under his suit, bent in a direction that’s totally not normal. 

He takes a deep breath, tasting dust in the air, and decides to get a better look at his surroundings before anything else. He doesn’t have that much room to move—not that he really wants to actually, it feels like he’s gone a few rounds with Count Vertigo—so he can’t get a perfect reading of his surroundings stuck on his back like this.

First thing’s first, there’s heavy stone right above him. Not crushing him mind you, but it’s hovering a good three inches above his chest thanks to the rubble it’s landed on top of at either side of Dick. The space he’s trapped in opens up about a foot from his head into dark places he can’t make out even with the night vision. His feet are stuck, tangled up in something that makes it impossible to get much movement. 

It all comes rushing back to him then. The mass bomber that’s been attacking Gotham for the past three days, Dick rushing over to help because the building’s targeted are all places Bruce Wayne financially supports, the museum Tim and Duke were scoping out until they ran face to face with the bomber in the middle of setting up one of many explosives inside the museum. Dick remembers Tim calling for backup while Duke was rushing to evacuate the building. Dick was close by—combing through a homeless shelter with Jason—and they both rushed as quickly as they could to the museum to help deactivate as many bombs as possible while Bruce, Damian, Cass, Steph, and the GCPD Bomb-squad made their way over from across the city in 5pm traffic.

The bomber had hinted the day before that the zoo would be their next target, which, really, should have been the first clue that something on the other side of Gotham would be the real target. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, especially when the bomber was able to escape in the bat’s scramble to find their bombs.

And _especially_ when said bat’s aren’t able to find all the bombs and end up trapped under tons of rubble and various priceless remains of ancient art, fossils, and history. 

Blinking through another wave of nausea, causing his stomach to jolt slightly against his will and tug at something painful near his right hip, he lifts his hand to his comm and desperately hopes someone answers.

“N-Nightwing here,” he rasps, his throat feeling like sandpaper, his chest feeling like some jailbird had a riot with a tin can against his ribcage. He swallows, already very much craving the refreshing taste of water, and continues. “Anybody copy?”

There’s silence for a moment, a panic seizes in his chest, making his throat bob painfully.

“Batcave? Red Robin? Hood?” He lets go of his comm for a second as an angry cough tears through his vocal chords. He gasps, his whole body feeling like one giant bruise, then brings his hand back up to the comm. “Any… anyone?”

A minute passes, and then another, and Dick begins to feel like a butterfly in one of the displays in this museum. Pinned down, stuck, trapped. 

And when the panic begins to bite at the cotton still stuffed under his skull, someone finally answers him.

“ _—ing? Is that you? Come in Nightwing—_ ”

Babs. That’s Barbara’s voice. She’s been manning the communications during this whole bomb fiasco, high up in her clocktower. 

Dick’s always happy to hear her voice. Always ecstatic to even be in her presence. But this? The sound of her voice almost makes him want to sob.

“M’here,” Dick responds, closing his eyes and forcing himself to calm his breathing. “God, am I happy to hear your voice.”

It seems Barbara managed to nab a better connection between the two of them, because he can hear her let out an amused huff. “ _Not god, but I appreciate the compliment._ ” And as soon as the humor comes, it goes. That’s how Barbara is; she likes to keep the mood light but she also likes to keep on the most important topics. Useless chatter bugs her. “ _What’s your status, Wing-nut_?”

Dick winces, not that she can see that, but the moment of silence seems to be answer enough. 

“ _That bad?_ ”

Dick almost laughs, but he can feel a cough wanting to rip through him again, so he resists it. “No, n-not _that_ bad. I’m just- just a bit stuck. Ribs hurt, finger is broken, b-but-” he cuts off to cough, letting go of the comm again to hack into his glove, light- headedness attacking him like an old, morally ambiguous frenemy. Slade. Dick means Slade. Honestly, Dick feels worse now than what Deathstroke left him as the last time they fought. “S-sorry, it’s dusty.”

Babs is silent for a half a second before she answers, her voice soft. “ _That cough sounds worse than that._ ”

If it wouldn’t pull at every ache in his body, Dick would shrug. Instead, he just smiles. “Ribs, remember? I don’t- don’t think th… they’re broken, j-just bruised.”

“ _You’re stuttering too,_ ” Barbara points out and Dick blinks.

“I ah- am?”

And woah, he _is_ stuttering. He hadn’t noticed, he was just happy to hear Barbara’s voice. He swallows and takes a deep breath, cursing his body’s insistence of making him stutter whenever he’s upset or hurt. It’s been a thing ever since he was little. He could chatter away for hours and not miss a single word—Jason once told him that he could understand auctioneers better than Dick—but when situations get scary and his anxiety or depression or adrenaline kicks in a bit too much, he seems to lose control of his mouth. 

“Unnerved, I-” deep breath, Grayson, “I guess. ‘M pinned.”

Barbara hums. Then sighs. “ _Nothing else? Otherwise, you’re okay_?”

“J-just, fuck.” Deep breath. Release. “Just pinned. What about the others? Have you heard from them?”

“ _Yeah, I got a hold of all of them_ ,” she says, and Dick almost weeps out of joy. They’re alive. Probably buried like him, but alive.

He doesn’t express his joy though, because there’s something tight in her voice now. Something that has Dick curling his toes in anxiety. “There’s a…a _but_ isn’t there?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Barbara says after a suffocating second. “ _Yeah, there’s a_ but _. The rubble is blocking communications, so I can only talk to one of you at a time unless I want to short out the computer. But from what I’ve gathered so far… Dick… by the sound of it you’re the best off. You were the furthest from any of the explosions_.”

Dick’s breath catches, and he hardly even notices the fluffy feeling still in his brain or the sharp pain near his hip, or the pulsing of his broken finger. “How b… how bad?”

“ _Signal has an open fracture in his arm,_ ” Barbara starts, and Dick’s stomach flips without the rest of him. Judging by the sound of her voice, it’s only going to get worse. “ _He’s bandaged around the bone and is taking measures to make sure he doesn’t go into shock. Hood and Red are together, but Hood is unconscious and unresponsive, according to RR his helmet is shattered and there’s a cut on his head. RR… can’t get to Hood because he’s partly… crushed… under a pillar. N-Dick… he says he can’t feel his legs_.”

If Dick could leave his body and gather up every single one of his family members in the world’s most warm hug, he would. Instead, he’s stuck laying here, blinking at the dull blacks and greens that his mask allows him to see, feeling like he’s going to throw up. 

Open fracture. Potentially dangerous concussion. _Spinal damage_.

Of course Barbara sounds slightly upset, her voice wobbling in places it normally wouldn’t. Dick really _is_ the best off. Duke is bleeding out, Jason is unconscious, Tim can’t _feel_ his _legs_. Bab’s knows exactly how that last one feels. Dick can only try to comprehend.

“Hows… rescue looking?” he asks, forcing himself to sound strong now, because Barbara is vulnerable now. Dick has to be the sure and steady one for the moment. 

Barbara takes her own deep breath and then there’s the noise of keys on a keyboard typing. “ _Batman, Robin, Black Bat, and Spoiler have an ETA of five minutes. They’re bringing an army of first responders with them. The first fire truck should be here in three minutes. ‘Wing… with all the explosions going on, the first responders are thin. They can only get to you guys one at a time.”_

“Save me for last,” Dick says immediately. “I can go a few hours. Get to the other’s fist.”

“ _Alright_ ,” she agrees softly, a small smile in her voice. He can almost imagine it, the quirk to her lips, the freckles on her cheeks scrunching up slightly with the action. “ _I have to report to the big man now, and check on the others. You good if I leave you for a little while_?”

Suddenly, the darkness around him seems so much darker at the thought of being alone. Regardless, he smiles. “See ya later, O.”

“ _Alright then… over and out_ ”

And Dick is left in silence. 

He releases a huge breath, his ribs twinging in protest and his finger pulsing with his heart. He closes his eyes and imagines against his will being stuck down here, alone, for hours—his feet tangled in debris and stone miraculously just inches from crushing him. The thought sends shards of dread straight into his heart, but he swallows it. Takes another breath. And imagines the pain the others must be in.

Dick knows the feeling of an open fracture. He knows what it’s like for your entire arm to be numb and in endless agony all at the same time. He knows the way your stomach will jolt when you see your own bone, something you really should never be able to see. The wrongness of it. The pain and fear and terror. 

And Jason… head injuries can be damaging in permanent ways. Memory loss, loss of motor functions, stutters, blindness, everything. The brain controls everything, and damage to it can cause damage to your entire life. 

And Tim… Dick knows he must be wearing a brave face right now, telling Barbara the straight facts and sounding cool and collected. He’s not new to losing a part of himself, as seemingly small as a splenectomy is, it still forced Tim to change a lot about his life and how he handles sickness or potentially immunocompromising situations. Which are both things that they can run into often while on the job of a vigilante in a sleazy city like Gotham. If Tim loses his ability to walk… 

Dick can wait. He can wait no matter how long it takes to make sure Duke can get his arm properly set back in place, or for Jason to wake up just a bit groggy, or Tim to get surgery and be walking again in just a few months.

Dick can wait no matter how long it takes. No matter what.

With that thought, the dark doesn’t seem that dark anymore. It feels a little easier to breathe. 

He thinks that maybe… he can try to get his legs unstuck so he can crawl out of his pinned position and into wider spaces. Make it slightly easier on himself.

Careful of his broken finger and of his smarting ribs, Dick shifts so his hands are above his head. He finds the lip of the stone above him and grabs onto it, wiggling his toes in readiness. The stone seems pretty sturdy on the rubble to his sides, so if he dislodges his legs he’s pretty confident the entire thing isn’t going to fall down on him.

He takes a deep breath. Counts to three, then _pulls_.

And here’s the thing, he expected pain. His ribs hurt. His finger is broken. He knew this wouldn’t be entirely pleasant.

But he didn’t expect the absolute agony to tear through his lower gut, fire spreading from some vague point of _ouch_ out to the rest of his body that has him forgetting the world and being entirely drowned in pain. White covers his vision even in the darkness. Ringing explodes in his ears.

And then consciousness leaves him as the world crashes.

=—=—=—=

There’s a voice in his ear. He groans and barely manages to bring his eyes even a sliver open. There’s copper at the back of his tongue, making his face screw up in a grimace. 

He _hurts_. Everything hurts. His broken finger, his ribs, his throat, his _hip_.

And his ears, as the voice continues to call out to him. A cough wracks his frame as he tries to wake up, and all the good that does is fill his mouth with more copper, making his hip hurt even worse.

“Gah,” Dick gasps, his eyes flying open at the pain, his lungs shuttering to take in a full helping of air. Everything flies back to him for the second time since he’s been stuck down here, and it’s all he can do to grab onto the comm in his ear and Barbara angrily calls his name out for the _who-knows-how-many-time’th_. “B-Babs?”

Barbara sighs in relief and begins to snarl about how he should have answered her the first time, but Dick doesn’t listen.

He’s too busy lifting his head—causing his neck to object rather angrily—to look at the main source of pain.

It’s like all those times when Dick came back from patrol and woke up the next morning feeling normal and refreshed, then when he’s in the middle of pouring some cinnamon toast into a bowl he notices that there’s a huge purpling splotch or red line somewhere on his body, and the moment he sees it is when he notices the pain of the bruise or cut.

Except this is so much worse.

Near his hip bone is a bar, protruding through his suit right up into the stone above him. He can feel the wetness of two puncture wounds, the pain both sides of his body is in that he’s suddenly hyper aware of. 

Now he really feels like those butterflies. Those butterflies in glass cages.

The ones with pins in their wings.

His hands shake and he lets go of his comm to grab his mouth, the copper— _blood_ —gurgling at the back of his throat as he holds back an agonized scream. He can feel tears pinprick his eyes from beneath his mask.

Pain. He’s in so much pain.

He’s in so much pain that it takes a minute to realize Barbara is calling his name, anger turned to worry. 

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, a tear escaping an eye, and forces himself away from the pain. “Soh- sorry. What d-did you say?”

“ _Dick… are you okay_?”

No, no Dick’s not okay. He’s been stabbed through by what looks like a rusty metal bar with the diameter of a little more than a centimeter. There’s blood in his mouth and his ribs hurt and his finger hurts and his everything hurts. 

He’s not okay. He wants to sob, that’s how _un-okay_ he is.

He’s about to tell her so, but then he remembers. Duke with an open fracture. Jason with a concussion. Tim with a spinal injury.

Dick’s seen people impaled in situations like this before. Especially during Gotham’s cataclysm, when the 7.6 magnitude earthquake hit and collapsed practically the entire city, burying hundreds of thousands. 

He remembers seeing people of all kinds in situations similar to his own, only to die anyway even after help got to them.

Dick can tell Barbara that he’s not fine, and that he’s probably at the most risk of death than all the others, and they’ll get to him first. They’ll dig him out, take him to a hospital, take out the bar and sew him back together, and the others will still be here. Duke will lose more blood and potentially lose his entire arm if he’s not gotten to in time. Jason might have a permanent brain injury from staying asleep on a major concussion. Tim might never walk again.

And Dick might die anyways.

And he’s afraid. He’s terrified. Horrified at the thought of them being permanently damaged when he’ll die anyways. Petrified at the thought of what he knows he has to tell Barbara. 

He’s scared.

But he opens his mouth anyways.

“I’m fine,” he chokes. He didn’t mean to, but honestly it’s close to impossible just to catch his breath.

A second of silence. Then “ _you don’t sound fine. Dick, what’s wrong_?”

She sounds panicked and Dick wants to curse. 

Instead, he dissociates. Ignores the taste of blood in his mouth. Forces the pain to the back of his mind. 

“J-just aching I guess. I-I accidentally fell asleep a-and it’s not the most comfortable position in-” _he needs to cough, he really needs to cough_ -”th-the world.”

He releases the comm and hacks, more metallic grossness covering every single one of his taste-buds and making his stomach feel like one of those horror films where a hand bursts from some dude’s body in all that lovely gory cinematic fashion. Once he’s done with the cough, he blinks a few more tears from his eyes and groans, bringing his good hand back to his ear. 

“A-and I’m-m a little st-stir crazy now. What’s the- the word on the oth… others?”

“ _If… if you say so_ ,” Barbara says, skepticism lacing every note in her tone. Thankfully though, she continues on, not pushing for now. “ _They’re almost to the Reds’. Jay- Hood woke up about ten minutes ago, and according to Red he was confused and agitated for awhile… which is understandable._ ”

Yeah it is. Because it’s not the first time Jason was in an explosion and woke up buried. 

“ _Red Robin still can’t feel his legs_.”

Dick closes his eyes. Breaths. He opens his eyes after a moment and glares at the stone above him.

“Duke?” Dick asks.

“ _Still as fine as he can be. He has a fever now though_.”

Shit. Shit shit shit shit.

Fuck.

“H… how long until…?”

“ _At least two hours for you_ ,” Barbara answers softly. “ _If there’s no complications with the others._ ”

“Okay,” Dick whispers. Can he last another two hours, stabbed through with a rusty bar of metal? “Okay.”

“ _I… have to go now. They’re close to Red. I just wanted to… check up on you_.”

“Okay,” Dick repeats. “Thank you.”

“ _…Wing… you’re going to be fine, right_?”

“Yeah,” Dick answers, closing his eyes and letting a few more tears fall, the pain in his lower gut twinging. “I’m… always fine.”

Barbara cuts their connection, and more blood fills his mouth. 

=—=—=—=

Getting Jason and Timothy excavated from the wreckage of Gotham’s Museum of History and Wonder was… chaotic. Damian has seen many chaotic things in his life, but seeing two people Damian has come to consider something close to… family… half dead and bleeding within the debris of singed stone… it hits differently.

Timothy was rushed to the hospital in a big, bulky back brace along with Stephanie tagging along in the ride. It’s dangerous to send one of their own to the hospital, but Damian… is happy… that his father put Timothy’s ability to walk above that danger. 

Jason, on the other hand, is sitting near the borders of wreckage, an icepack to his forehead and a shock blanket wrapped stubbornly around his shoulders. Damian sits beside him, making sure he keeps awake, less Jason wishes a paramedic sit besides him instead because the oaf absolutely refuses to get more medical attention than this.

Damian would much rather be helping dig out Duke and Richard, but he understands too why he was put on Jason Todd babysitting duty. Damian… is small, and hasn’t actually been that much help when the things that need lifting are giant chunks of stone that need multiple adults at a time to lift. As annoying as it is, to sit here and wait next to Jason and outcasted as the child, he grudgingly knows that he’ll only be in the way.

The problem with sitting here and waiting next to an aggravated and concussed Red Hood is that now Damian has nothing to distract him from the twisting feeling in his gut. He’s had it ever since they felt the explosion rumble the ground on the other side of Gotham. Ever since Barbara informed them in a panic that the tip was a hoax and the museum was the real target.

Something isn’t right, he’s known it from the beginning, but at least doing his best to help dig Timothy and Jason out had distracted him from that. 

But now, it’s all he can think of. The twisting in his gut. There’s something entirely wrong about this whole situation, and it isn’t the fact that fellow vigilante’s and… family… have been buried here.

It’s something else.

He just doesn’t know what.

Though, he doesn’t seem to have to wait long, because right when he’s about to clutch his middle and wonder if he ate something rotten, Oracle’s voice erupts in their comms, her voice once again in a panic.

“ _Something’s wrong_ ,” she says, confirming Damian’s gut feeling.

Something is wrong.

She explains in a rush that after they dug out Timothy and Jason, she’s been chatting with Duke to keep him awake and aware. After a few minutes, she decided to check up on Richard and let him know of the status of things.

He didn’t answer her.

No matter how loudly she shouted his name, he didn’t answer.

Something is wrong.

Something is _wrong_.

Something is **_wrong_ ** with Richard.

Damian is to his feet before he realizes it, demanding an explanation, making himself sound angry to not let on the fact that all he feels is… terror.

“ _He said he was fine_!” Barbara argues. 

“ _When_ ,” father’s voice suddenly cuts in, voice strained in a way that tightens the knot in Damian’s stomach even further.

“ _From the beginning_ ,” Barbara explains, “ _said he was just a bit pinned, broken finger and bruised ribs- shit_.”

Damian closes his eyes. 

“ _The second time I checked up on him… it took awhile for him to answer, and he was stuttering like crazy. He said he was fine…_ **_shit_** _.”_

Everyone in the line now becomes painfully reminded of Richard’s martyr complex. 

“ _Oracle_ ,” father growls, “ _contact Signal and tell him there’s been a change in the order of rescue_.”

“ _On it,_ ” Barbara replies before cutting out of the line.

Damian stares ahead of him and winds one hand around his gut. He knew it. Richard always does this. He always puts the safety of others before his own, like he's completely unaware of what his death would do to father… what it would do to Damian. Damian doesn’t want to lose Richard again. It was hard enough coming back to life just to find that his eldest… _brother…_ his _Batman_ , was dead. 

He knew it.

And the knot doesn’t loosen.

Then, he feels a strong, large hand wrap around his own, and Damian finds himself being tugged back so he’s sitting next to Jason once again. It takes him a moment to realize that Jason’s arm is now wrapped around his shoulder, along with the shock blanket.

“The idiot will be fine,” Jason says with a slightly slurred voice, his hand squeezing Damian’s shoulder. “He always is.”

Damian nods, sniffles, then exits Jason’s boggling embrace. Jason doesn’t say anything about it, just stares off at the jumble of people moving from one place to another towards where Nightwing’s tracker is placed. His jaw is set and his eyes suddenly sharp, as if promising himself that if Richard doesn’t get out of this alive, Jason will kill him himself.

Damian sets his jaw and does the same.

Because a lot of people will kill Richard if he dies here, and Damian will make sure to get his hit in.

Richard will not leave him like this. Damian will not allow it.

=—=—=—=

Jason was placed under bed rest by none other than Alfred Pennyworth until he was out of the woods via permission from Leslie Thompkins. Besides the occasional migraine that followed him around like an insult to injury, he was fine.

Duke got his arm set and inspected and casted and was given a sling for his troubles. He will wear the cast for quite a long time, but he will recover and it will be good as new.

Tim was in surgery for thirteen hours with the best damn team of spinal surgeons in Gotham, and with no complications he was deemed expected to walk again if he took his physical therapy seriously, got plenty of rest and relaxation, and followed the list of things that would control his life for the next few months to a _T_. 

Dick meanwhile, is told he was in surgery for even longer and flat-lined twice during the procedure. 

But that’s fine. He’s alive and everyone will make full recovery. He doesn’t regret lying, to everyone’s annoyance, because Duke accidentally let it slip while Steph was drawing on his cast inside Dick’s hospital room that Tim was brought in just in time. Any later and they might not have been able to save his legs.

Not to say he wants to die or anything, because _goddamn,_ passing out that second time with blood on his lips and a mind numbing agony crashing through his body was the scariest feeling. The details of the memory are blurry, but he’s pretty sure he cried.

He cried waking up in the hospital bed too.

He got verbal lashing from everyone for his troubles. Bruce looked ready to tear his hair out while he paced and rambled on and on and on about Dick not thinking and being irresponsible just to stop by Dick’s bedside and pull Dick into a shocking embrace. His gut protested at the hug, causing him to cry out, which made the hug not last that long, but Dick knew what Bruce was trying to say. Alfred gave him the _narrow eye_ and gave him much the same speech but in a way that made Dick sink into his pillows in shame. Jason almost swore at him a few times in his rant, which is saying something—Jason doesn’t often swear to the shock of most people, much preferring to say other ridiculous words that cause everyone to full body cringe, in fact… Dick has more money in the swear jar than Jason—but Dick heard him say “YOU’RE A REAL FUuuuu-rrreaking pieCE OF WORK-” which woah.

Cass, Steph, and Duke cornered him all at the same time, and while they didn’t yell at him, their short, clipped words until he convinced them to hug him was testament enough of what they felt. 

Damian hardly talked to him at all until Dick was out of the hospital and placed inside his room at the manor with a strict bedrest order from pretty much everyone. It was the middle of the night when he heard his door open and a small body climb into his bed, curling carefully to his chest. Dick squeezed Damian, whispering that he’s alright, and Damian just sniffled and told him he wasn’t afraid.

Which is Damian for he was very afraid.

And Tim… well Tim avoided him like the plague for a few weeks, even at the manor. The cold shoulder hurt, but Dick understood.

And he knew it wouldn’t last long either.

Especially since Tim came rolling up to him with his wheelchair, looked at Dick in his own wheelchair, and said the corridor in the East Wing was the longest in the manor.

The race was on, bets were made between siblings, and all was forgiven.

And Dick couldn’t be happier to be alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my [bingo card](https://zhe-angst-diary.tumblr.com/post/624382266235355136/claimed-squares-touch-starved-mission-gone)!
> 
> You can request a square in the comments or in an ask on Tumblr. Please be aware of the ones already requested though. Thanks!
> 
> I realized my card has two "Earthquake" squares... I'll figure out what to do about that later. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! 🥰


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